Think
by beautiful.mind-broken.body
Summary: Steve's story, 15 years down the road. One shot. R&R please.


When I was younger, the world was a much better place. True story. Nothing is the way it used to be. The morals and ideals of those who run the world today have swiftly changed from that of honor and dignity to greed and power. Thinking about such an inevitable truth disgusts me. I don't understand where nobility was lost. Yet, no matter how curious I am about the matter, or how much I may debate it amongst myself, things will never change.

"Excuse me, how much is this?" a man asks as he gestures towards a cigar in the humidor. I run a small general store. It's not exactly my first pick of occupation, but I wouldn't say I've chosen much for myself over this life of mine. The store was handed down to me from my drunk of a father.

I let out a sigh, "You'll have to be more specific than that; which one?"

"The uh… Romeo y Julieta…?"

"Four bucks."

"Do you smoke a lot of cigars?"

"Not really." That's a lie. I'm somewhat of a cigar connoisseur, but taste and preference is something acquired by experience, not recommendation. I'm almost tempted to say, _if you're unsure, then don't bother_.

"I see," the man speculates with resolution. "I'll try this one."

"Four bucks," I repeat.

"Do you take credit?"

"No. Cash only." That's another lie. I do take credit, but not for something as small and trivial as a four-dollar purchase. I'd end up paying an unreasonable amount of his purchase through service fees from the credit company. I'm not really interested in joining in on this guy's questionable investment. It's not that I'm stingy; it's more a matter of spite. Hell, don't come into my store waving your plastic around as some fool's way of building credit so you can get a car loan or a house loan in the future. That's not my problem. Besides, cash feels better—as a store owner, it's more rewarding to receive.

"Ah, that's fine," he confirms that he has cash. Why even suggest credit in the first place?  
He brings his purchase to the counter and the transaction is made.

_Now get out of my store!_ How I wish I could say that to him. If you ask me, I'll tell you that I'm not a bad guy. I try to be honest, decent and respectful—even though I've been bruised well by society and its jolly, over-productive advocates. It's the same deal whether you're in Tulsa or somewhere 'different.' See, American society works very similar to a feudal system; with the exception of few distinct, intelligent individuals, most people tend to remain in the class they were born. Classes are biologically nurtured, which means if you enter this world in the upper or middle class, you'll probably end up just like the pompous, intolerable, hot-shot parents who were responsible for such a fluke. If you're born lower-class, you'll probably be riding that same lower-class wave throughout your life. Sure, you can work your way to the top if you want, but chances will have it that without proper nourishment of intelligence, you're going nowhere—not to mention that most of the world's pompous, intolerable hot-shots will try to keep you on that lower-class wave, if not drown you in it. In essence, you're born into a pile of shit, and it's that same shit that sheets your bed when you die in it.

I was born into an ocean of shit. I'm still in that same ocean. I never drowned in it. I realized immediately that I either had to sink or swim. Sinking is too easy, so I chose the latter; I've been treading ever since, which tells you that I'm one tough mother fucker, and tells me that I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.  
Another customer walks into the store, and he heads directly for the coolers. This guy is a student. He's well-dressed, though, wearing a full suit. I imagine he is returning from a class where he made some sort of presentation. College is unbelievable these days. It's hard to determine which way it's heading. On one hand, there's the fact that almost all jobs currently require some sort of degree of their employees. On the other hand, I look at the sorts of kids that are being accepted into college and wonder what exactly that degree is worth. A college degree is so common to come across now (and basically anybody can obtain one) that it might as well be tossed out the door as a requirement. I've met many dumb students in this store—students who have auras about them that reek of their unintelligence—people undeserving of furthering their career opportunities. In fact, I would venture as far as to say that half of today's college students are only studying further than high school because they don't know what else to do with their lives. That's not this guy's case as he meanders through the store. He has evidence of a better future than normality—or maybe that's just what I perceive, or perhaps it's simply because he's wearing a suit. I have no idea what his future entails, but I imagine that no matter what, it's a long, hard life like the rest of us.

As I stand in contemplation, my vision blurs toward the remainder of the store. I can see the student as he looks enthusiastically about the coolers—distinctly at the beer. His gaze finally lands on a thirty-rack of Keystone Light, and he grabs the box by the handle, bringing it towards the register and, consequently, me.

"How are you today?" I ask him, knowing the truth of my indifference.

"Just finished classes for the day, so I'm gonna relax for the rest of it," he replies.

I wonder what 'relaxing for the rest of it' really denotes. I mean, it's half-past noon. Is he going to pound these beers to his face until he drowns? I let out a slight chuckle, as if to acknowledge that I understand what he's talking about. "Lucky you," I say.

"Oh, no it's not like that—I owe these to a friend over a lost bet," he tries to clarify to me.

I laugh a bit harder and reassure him, "You don't have to explain to me, buddy." I think he's going to drown himself. I don't really know what his intentions are, but I can assure you they're masked by the undeniable fact that he's buying beer a half-hour after noon. Isn't that the most important fact?

He hands me a ten-dollar bill, and I exchange back to him his proper change.

"Have fun drowning yourself."

"Thanks," the guy responds, shaking his head in disapproval. I imagine if he were telling the truth, I just insulted him greatly. He's a student; he'll be over it soon enough.

I have a tendency to say things that I shouldn't. I remember one year, at a family gathering, I insulted one of my nieces quite badly, yet I didn't recognize it at the time. As the story goes, or the best I can remember it, we were sitting down at the dining room table, just the two of us. Other people were standing around idly chatting with one another about the usual, dull, family bullshit. I don't have much in common with my relatives, on account of not being very close to my immediate family. I hold a very distant relationship for reasons that I cannot describe. To put it simply, family is in fact a choice. As the relationship goes, my family chose me—I didn't choose them. So here I am chatting with my niece, Jocelyn, all while examining the many tattoos covering her body, which I couldn't seem to keep my eyes off of. Coincidentally she was talking about her inkings: the age and order that she got them in, how much they each cost and hurt. As she spoke, my interest grew less and less. What makes her think I give a damn about her tattoos? She got them—shouldn't they only be for her then? I asked her this…

"So, did you get these things for personal reasons or for showing them off like you are to me?" I must admit, it was the only stimulus I could find on my part of the conversation. She didn't take my question the way I intended it. It's amazing what people take offense to.

"Umm…" she began to reply, "I got them for myself." She spoke as if I knew the answer already. If I had known, I wouldn't have asked it. She excused herself after replying, and left the room rather promptly. I didn't see Jocelyn for another couple of hours—by which time I had had my fill of family and was preparing to leave. I was giving my farewells, when I first saw her again. Her eyes left evidence of tears in them, and I wondered if I had contributed to that. I suppose I'll never know for sure, because my sister, her mother, Jane never talked to me about it. It's probably one of those grudge situations, in which I'll have to work very hard to regain their respect again. Such childish games people play, even in older age. I didn't apologize, mostly because nobody brought it to my attention again. If it wasn't worth pointing out, then it wasn't worth apologizing over. That's how I felt about it back then, anyhow. I don't know if my feelings still hold true now.

"Hello, sir!" a voice greets me.

"H-hello," I respond, startled as hell.

"Do you have a bathroom in here?"

"Not for public use," I look him over briefly. He's a short, elderly man perhaps twenty years older than me. His khaki trousers are pulled almost to his chest, where his gray, short-sleeve shirt tucks into them. He's wearing a pair of brown penny-loafers (with the penny in the tongue) and a baseball cap. The cap says '_Think_.' on it—an old IBM slogan. I wonder if he used to work for IBM. I don't dare to ask him; I fear if I instigate conversation that it will never end. He looks like a talker. "However, if you'd like to use the toilet, it's right through that door," I point toward the rear of the store where the bathroom is. He thanks me briefly, and slowly begins his elderly journey toward the back.

I don't mind being courteous occasionally. I think I'm generally a courteous person, as I try not to intentionally irritate people; I know how it feels to be annoyed and thus don't wish the feeling onto others. I probably used to be indifferent to others' feelings, but I haven't thought about it long enough to know for sure. _Think_. The image of the old man's hat is stuck in my head.

"Thank you kindly," the old man interrupts my thought process. I hadn't even noticed that he returned from the back. How can it be that such an old man is so quiet?

"Did you work for IBM?" I ask, gesturing towards his cap.

"No, not me—my father did. Actually, he created this slogan. That was in the early 30's."

"Long time ago, eh? Is that an original hat?"

"Yes it is. I've been wearing it since I was I in college. I somehow managed to keep it in decent condition. Hard to believe!" he chuckles a bit as he speaks. This man is wise—I can tell.

"That _is_ quite impressive," I admit. I'd like to ask him if he's going to make a purchase, but instead I ask him if he will sell the hat to me. I really like it.

"I don't know if I can part with this hat," he responds. "Ever since I was a kid, I felt that wearing this hat helps me be more aware of my thoughts. But, after wearing it for so long, I probably don't need it anymore. Besides, I'm old and won't be around for much longer."

I almost wanted to lend him a few words of encouragement to his health. However, in this case, the words he says aren't as important as his intention of saying them. He's not fishing for sympathy or pity here. He's searching for answers—answers that will help him conclude his life-long journey. At least that's the impression I get.

"Well, you've made my mind," the old man concludes, "I'll give this hat to you if you really want it."

I'm shocked that he is so ready to part with it. Before I can conjure something of gratuity to say, the hat is already off his head and on the counter in front of me. He turns toward the door, and, without looking back, says to me,

"Take good care of it. I hope it will be as helpful to you as it was to me."

I don't even have time to respond; he is gone. I look at the hat on the counter. _Think_. I pick it up and place it on my head. Nobody is in the store. I am alone.

I grab the telephone's receiver as conscience dials my sister's phone number.


End file.
